Rain, Rain
by PenPistola
Summary: A searing take on Eames' backstory, framed in the present, where a job goes wrong and Arthur and Eames get to know each other a little better.


**From the Inception Kink Meme:**

**Prompt:** I just want some lightly angsty fluff/porn where they both see each other with the barriers down (suits off, hair mussed, bare feet, Eames' tattoos visible all over the place, the whole shebang).

Extra bonus internets if anon gets Arthur-with-a-tattoo-kink in there (and he licks several with his tongue). \o/

**A/N:** I had quite a fun time writing this. I'm not sure how it got so long, but hopefully it was worth it. I got a lot of inspiration for the fill from listening to Peter Gabriel's cover of "My Body Is a Cage". So beautiful. /girlytime

Anyway, 4831 words and rated R for Ruh Roh Raggy. Don't own, don't sue.

"God fucking dammit," Arthur growled as he flung the passenger car door open one-handed. Eames jogged around the other side, head ducked against the brutally pounding rain. The shouting voices were getting closer, and Eames fired off a couple of warning shots toward them. Someone returned fire; a bullet pinged off the back bumper of the ancient Cadillac, and Eames ducked into the driver's seat. At least the heap of a car was solid, he thought as he fought with the car to start. The men with guns and trench coats were within fifty yards of them when the engine finally turned with a protesting cough.

"Drive, drive, _drive_," Arthur bit out between clenched teeth. He was hunched in the passenger seat, left hand clamped against a steadily growing red stain on his right sleeve.

"On it." Eames stomped on the accelerator, hard, and gravel flew at the men who were now quite close behind. Finally the huge car found traction, and they started out at a barrel, Eames fighting to keep the car under control.

It was a full five minutes of nothing but the sound of the shitty windshield wipers waving ineffectually before either of them spoke again. Eames' eyes kept darting between the blurry image of the road and Arthur, still curled up in a ball.

"Sorry," he said.

Arthur turned to him with a glare and moved his hand away from his arm, waving his bloodied fingers. "_Sorry_?" Eames winced. Now he was sorry-sorry he'd spoken up. "I got shot because of you, Eames," Arthur went on. "And in case you haven't noticed, this is this the fucking real world. This isn't going to heal when I wake up."

Eames decided to keep his eyes on the road for now. If he looked at Arthur's accusatory face for too long, Eames was afraid he might punch it. It was only a damn graze wound, anyway. The landscape rushed by, nothing but endless level fields of sugarcane now that they'd left the plant behind. Eames had no idea where they were, really; he'd lost track of Caruso, their temporary architect. The one who was from around here and who actually knew where they were headed. He cursed under his breath.

"We can't go back for him, you know," he finally said. "They know our faces now. And like you said, real world. He's on his own."

Arthur let out a "tch" in the seat next to him and turned to gaze out the window. "We'll have to stop somewhere, though."

"Yeah."

It was dusk before Eames finally found a place to stop. The landscape hadn't changed, just a long, narrow road snaking through neat fields in either direction, but somebody had thought to put a truck stop in the middle of it. There was a gas station, a diner and a very small motel advertising color TV. Eames pulled in the nearly abandoned parking lot, gazing hungrily at the stark fluorescent lights of the ramshackle little diner.

"I'll get us a room and some food," Eames offered, and Arthur at least had the decency not to complain. He just gave a short nod, indicating he'd stay in the car for now. He watched as Eames' back disappeared into the still steadily driving rain. The throbbing in his arm had subsided a little, and Arthur let out a sigh and sank into the seat. Now it was the rest of his body that was aching.

Two minutes later, Eames was back with a pair of keys jingling between his fingers. "Food comes later," he said. "Let's get you inside."

Arthur climbed out of the car and was re-soaked within seconds, his hair washed clean of gel and plastered over his eyes. The weather was warmer here than in his native New York, but it was still a rather cool November. By the time Eames was hastily fumbling with the key in the lock, Arthur's teeth were chattering.

"I'll be right back with the food."

Eames shut the door and left Arthur alone in the sudden heat of the little motel room. It was a shabby place, but fairly clean-looking, with wainscoted walls and furniture in dark brown and orange tweed. Arthur had no doubts it was vintage. There was a tiny bathroom in the corner, and Arthur made a beeline to it to examine himself in the mirror. He looked like shit, pale and bedraggled under the fizzling light bulb like an injured animal. In a suit. Arthur made sure the bathroom door was locked before beginning to divest himself of the soaked clothing. He mourned briefly before tossing each ruined article into the tub. They hit with a wet slap until he was down to his underwear, which was only slightly damp. Those were staying on. At least the wound on his arm had stopped bleeding, he noticed, relieved. He always kept a small first-aid kit in his briefcase, and he reached for it for supplies to disinfect the wound. It was a shallow graze that he'd gotten when Eames had failed to notice the extra guard posted inside the mark's office. A stupid mistake that Eames should have seen. That _Arthur_ should have seen. He cursed as the peroxide bubbled over the skin, and then tore off a length of gauze with his teeth and began wrapping it around his bicep. It was short, easy work.

Eames still wasn't back by the time he'd finished, so he stepped cautiously out of the bathroom, yanked the thin top blanket off the bed and curled up on the couch with it. His stomach was rumbling unpleasantly, and it was difficult to think about what had gone wrong and how it could have been corrected over the emptiness in his gut. Once again, he was glad they hadn't hired Ariadne for this job. It could have been a lot worse, he decided; this was a dirty, dangerous job to begin with. Arthur would know better now than to take another like it. Sometimes Arthur still missed Cobb.

Just then the door swung open and Eames darted in, a large brown paper bag tucked under his arm. Arthur rolled his eyes as Eames shuffled around on the rug, wiping his feet and flinging water everywhere anyway.

"Just put it on the table and quit dripping," he groaned. Eames was taking too long, and the food smelled so very _good_.

"Alright, alright." Eames walked over to the couch where Arthur was sitting and dropped the bag onto the coffee table. "Enjo-"

Arthur glanced up at Eames, confused as to why he'd suddenly stopped talking. "What?" Eames seemed to have only just noticed that Arthur wasn't wearing any clothes. Arthur watched him, irritation rising, as his eyes traveled over the parts of Arthur's body left exposed by the blanket.

"You're um..." Eames started. "You're... you have skin under there. How odd." He grinned. As a save, it was a pretty poor one, but Arthur let it go.

"Yes, fascinating, I know. Now go take your clothes off before you make a puddle on the carpet."

Eames waited until he was turned away from Arthur and headed for the bathroom before he raised an eyebrow at the other man's choice of words. "Take my clothes off," he murmured. "Yes, sir."

Arthur dug into the bag as Eames thumped around in the bathroom, allowing himself a small smile as he pulled out a red and white cardboard tray of chili cheese fries. Normally Arthur tried to eat more healthily, but a little comfort food didn't sound bad about now. He popped a couple of the fries into his mouth, savoring the flavor of them. When he was done chewing, he immediately snatched a few more. And so it went until Eames came out the bathroom a few moments later and the tray was conspicuously empty.

"You're in your pants," Arthur noted as Eames stepped into the room.

"How observant of you," Eames deflected, and he stalked over to the couch. He had a wet towel draped over his shoulders like a shawl and his jeans scrunched as he walked. He moved to stand over Arthur, staring down at the empty cheese fry tray. "And I see you've eaten all the chips."

Arthur dug around in the bag and tossed him an oblong, foil-wrapped shape. "There, I left you the hot dog." Eames grinned suggestively, and Arthur let out a huff. "Just eat it and go take your pants off. You can't just sit around forever in wet clothes."

"Can too," Eames mumbled through a mouthful of hot dog. "'Sides," he swallowed, "I'm not wearing any, er-"

"What are we, 12?" Arthur cut him off, rolling his eyes again. "Go take your damn pants off." Eames licked the last of the demolished hot dog off his fingers and gave Arthur a hard look. Arthur just stared back. "I'm not sharing the bed with a guy in wet clothes," he challenged.

Finally Eames gave in, dumped the contents of his pockets onto the floor and slunk off back to the bathroom. Arthur shook his head; to think it would be that much trouble getting Eames, of all people, out of his pants.

There was another wet slap and then Eames came out again, using a new towel to dry off his hair and leaving it mussed. He was completely naked otherwise, and for the first time Arthur got a good look at him. The tattoos he'd noticed from time to time peeking out from under collars and shirt sleeves twisted around his arms, across his chest and back and just above his hip. And, well, it wasn't his fault if he couldn't stop his eyes from straying elsewhere. The lines of Eames' chiseled hips drew him downward like a funnel; it was inevitable.

"I can feel you watching me," said Eames from beneath the towel, and Arthur immediately snapped his gaze back toward the bag of food and colored.

"Wasn't," Arthur retorted lamely, and distracted himself by digging in the bag to see what was left. There were a couple of sodas, and Arthur popped one open and took a large gulp.

"You'd better not be drinking the grape."

Eames flopped down on the couch next to him, and they very carefully kept their eyes off each other as Arthur unwrapped a bit of the blanket for Eames to cover himself with. "I detest grape," he grumbled, and then handed Eames the purple can. Eames popped it open happily and sipped the foam off the top. "As a matter of fact, I detest soda."

Eames glanced at him. "You would." He pushed some of the food aside and propped his feet up on the corner of the coffee table that was left. There was a moment of awkward silence. Then, "Crazy day."

"Yeah," said Arthur simply. It was sort of surreal sitting mostly naked on a couch with an entirely naked Eames, and nothing else to say came to mind. Count on Eames to think of something.

"How's your arm?"

Arthur poked gingerly at the gauze around his bicep, faintly surprised that Eames cared enough to ask. "It's alright. It'll heal."

"You took care of it, though? Disinfected it?"

"I know how to clean a wound," Arthur said a bit sourly. Then he thought the better of it and added, "Thanks."

Eames met his eyes for once, dark gray-green almost black in the dim light. He looked earnest, unguarded for once. His brow furrowed like he had something to say, and Arthur raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, Arthur." _Oh_. Fuck. Arthur's gaze dropped, and Eames rushed on. "I was the first one through that door, you're right. I should have seen him, but I didn't. I put your life in danger, and-"

"No." Arthur could feel Eames staring confusedly at him. "Shit. Eames, it was my fault. I was the one who researched the place. It was my job to know this stuff, not yours. But I got distracted, and-"

"Arthur, shut up." It was Arthur's turn to stare. Eames' hand was suddenly on his shoulder, heavy and warm. "Ever since Cobb left, you've had to be both point man and extractor. I don't know how many people could have pulled that off. And yeah, so this one went a bit pear-shaped, but you've still done a hell of a job."

Arthur was silent for a moment, staring at his knuckles around the soda can. Then, "Sometimes you're not such a thick-headed oaf."

"Thank you," Eames grinned, toasted Arthur and took a long swig.

This time the quiet was amiable. Before long both soda cans stood empty on the coffee table beside the paper bag. Eames' hand still rested on Arthur's shoulder, but he didn't move it, and Arthur didn't mind. It was kind of nice, not fighting for once. Just being companions. Eventually, unsure of what was possessing him, Arthur scooted a little closer. Eames' skin was warm as he engulfed Arthur in a loose embrace. It was almost comforting. Eames watched him, his gaze steady.

"What are we doing?" Arthur breathed the words like a sigh of resignation.

"Does it matter?"

Arthur's lips twitched. "Guess not." Then he reached behind him, removed Eames' arm from his shoulder and spread it across his lap. He toyed with Eames' hand, examining the blocky fingers with his own slender ones, then moved up his forearm. Eames' eyes fluttered shut at the feather-light touch. He was muscular, thicker than Arthur's whipcord lean body, and the heavy swirl of a tattoo bulged over his bicep.

"Mmm, you've stopped at the ink," Eames grinned, eyes still closed.

"There's a lot of it." Arthur trailed his fingers along the thick black stripe, nearly up to the shoulder.

"Mm." Eames shuddered a bit. "That feels nice."

Arthur grinned, then shifted and leaned his head closer to Eames' body. He touched the tip of his tongue to the bottom of the tattoo and left a glistening wet trail along the skin. Eames let out a little gasp, his eyes flying open. He watched, mouth parted, as Arthur's tongue traveled along his shoulder, his collarbone, his neck. Then Arthur planted his mouth more firmly, sucking at the ink below the hollow of his collarbone and Eames let out a groan.

"A-_Arthur_." His voice was low, almost pained. "What are you..." but the words flew from his head and he ceased making any sounds but that of his ragged, uneven breathing. Arthur's hands skittered down over Eames' abs, stroking lightly at the words rendered in blackletter above his hip. Eames' breath caught in his chest.

"What's this one?" Arthur asked, his cheek pressed to Eames' shoulder and eyelashes fluttering against the skin.

Eames was silent for a minute. "It's from a long time ago." Arthur's fingers lingered over the ink, and Eames sighed, knowing he wasn't satisfied with his answer. "I..." Eames extricated his arm from Arthur's grasp and pinched at the bridge of his nose. "A few years out of secondary school. I'd dated the same girl for all of sixth form, and we..."

Arthur's eyes softened. "You had a kid."

"How did you...?"

"I just spent thirty seconds sucking on the other tattoo." He ran a knuckle across the words 'padre fiero' across Eames' collarbone.

"Fair 'nuff." Eames' eyes were glazed, staring off at nothing. Arthur frowned; so he'd hit a sensitive subject. He sat still for a moment, stomach knotted, angry at himself. He'd wondered if it was even possible to hurt Eames. Apparently it was.

"Should we, maybe...?" Arthur started after a while.

"Yeah, sure." Eames shifted himself out from under Arthur and climbed onto the lumpy double bed. Arthur followed, and they each turned on their sides away from the other and pulled up the comforter. Then Eames flicked off the lamp, and Arthur lay quietly breathing through his nose. Ten minutes. He'd fucked up. Arthur could feel Eames' body heat behind him, but the other man lay just as still. They'd slept in the same bed on missions before, but Eames had always tossed and turned. The slant of the blinds on the window allowed some of the halogen light from the truck stop in, and it flickered in and out through the shadow of rain falling from the overhang outside. The drum of it on the roof was a slow, steady roar. But Arthur couldn't sleep. Another ten minutes. Eames hadn't so much as twitched beside him. Twenty. Thirty. Finally Arthur's injured arm began to throb, and he had to move. He shifted onto his back and spared Eames a glance. The other man was curled up on his side of the bed, facing the bathroom with his arms crossed and his pillow wadded beneath his head.

"Eames?" he breathed, unsure if the other man was awake.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, "Yeah?"

But that was as far ahead as Arthur had thought. He stared at Eames' back for a moment, at the tattoos there, then made up his mind. He scooted across the narrow space between them and placed a hand lightly on Eames' shoulder, absorbing the warmth. "Are you alright?"

Eames answer was to roll over suddenly, steamrolling Arthur and climbing atop him to straddle his hips. His hands captured Arthur's wrists, pinning them to the bed on either side of his head. "Eames, what...?" Arthur gasped in surprise at the sudden weight on his nether regions. Eames just looked at him, his silhouette a silver dashed outline in the stripes of light, and his eyes two glints. "Eames?"

And then the larger man was kissing him, stubble scraping along his jaw in a way that shouldn't have been pleasant but was. It was hard and insistent, desperate, almost. Eames' tongue traced along Arthur's lips, forced its way into his mouth, explored every corner of him and left him squirming. Finally Eames broke it off, still straddling Arthur and gasping for air. "Don't speak," he whispered near Arthur's open, panting mouth. "Let's just..." And he kissed him again. Somewhere in the middle of it, Eames' fists released their grasp on Arthur's wrists, and Arthur wrapped his freed arms around Eames' back. His hands dug into the forger's skin, moving down his body to grip just above his hips and push him off.

"Underwear," Arthur gasped. Eames crawled down to hover over Arthur's legs, and the sudden absence of his weight made Arthur feel like his body was floating off the bed. He wasn't quite sure what was going on until he felt Eames' mouth on his cock. Eames sucked him through his underwear, turning the fabric transparent. Arthur couldn't have spoken if he wanted to; all he could do was make an embarrassing little whine at the back of his throat. He tried mouthing, "Please." But whether Eames saw it or not, he stuck his fingers in the waistband of Arthur's briefs and tugged them down over his thighs. Arthur's cock was already wet, and the cool air of the room had him twitching. The discomfort only lasted a couple of seconds before Eames was enveloping him, his hot, wet mouth taking Arthur in to the root. Arthur's eyes rolled back in his head, breath hissing through clenched teeth. "Ffffyes," he managed to get out. Eames' free hand was wandering all over his body, exploring him like he'd examined Eames. His fingers brushed over Arthur's skin like he wanted to memorize it, like he'd really believed that there was nothing under the ubiquitous suits but a black void. Like he was a treasure. Arthur's hands went straight to Eames' head. His fingers threaded in the larger man's hair, more soothing than forceful. "Eames, I-" Arthur was approaching orgasm almost startlingly fast. Eames showed no signs of stopping, swirling his tongue over the head of Arthur's dick and making him lightheaded from the sudden blood loss. "Fuck, I'm gonna..."

Then Eames let out a low, humming chuckle around his cock, and there was no holding back. Fuck fuck _fuck,_ he was coming harder than he ever had in his life. Arthur let out a strangled gasp as his orgasm welled up in him like a bonfire, starting at the base of his spine and rocketing through his gut and down his limbs until his legs twitched and his toes tingled. Eames made a noise in his throat and swallowed, watching him the whole time.

"Eames," Arthur choked out after his body had stopped spasming, but Eames just crawled back up his body and tapped a finger to his lips.

"Shh." Eames replaced the finger with his own lips, kissing him deeply so Arthur tasted the bitter remnants of himself. One of his hands was stroking Arthur's ass, probing him, and Arthur gasped. "Alright, love?" A note of concern? Arthur nodded and so Eames continued, circling Arthur's hole with his fingers. Arthur tried not to tense at the touch. It was so intimate, nothing he'd ever experienced; at least not like this, with Eames. But he knew what Eames wanted.

"First aid, in the bathroom. I've got-" Arthur started, but it was like Eames already knew. The bed creaked as Eames' weight disappeared, and Arthur could hear the other man padding toward the bathroom. For a brief moment the light came on, and he could see Eames reflected in the bathroom mirror, stooping to dig through Arthur's briefcase. He found what he was looking for and stood, gazing at himself in the mirror, until he caught Arthur's reflection from the room beyond watching him. The light flipped off again and before Arthur's eyes could adjust to the darkness, Eames was there. He heard the dull scraping of Eames unscrewing the pot of lubricant, and just the sound was enough to make his cock twitch. He was getting hard again in anticipation.

"Relax," Eames whispered in his ear, and his fingers were prodding at him again, but this time they were slippery with the viscous stuff. He pressed in up to the first knuckle without difficulty and seemed pleased by it. Arthur tried to keep his squirming to a minimum as Eames added a second finger, then a third. He couldn't help but shiver when the fingers brushed against his prostate, though, which Eames only grinned at and teased at it more.

"Eames, if you don't... I'll..." Arthur groaned. He was fully hard again, every inch of his body heated and thrumming with energy. Eames seemed to get the point and withdrew his fingers, leaving Arthur writhing for more. He caught Arthur around the middle and flipped the smaller man over so that he knelt before him on the mattress. His hands went to Arthur's hips to steady him, and then his cock was sliding against Arthur's ass. He pressed the tip of it to Arthur's hole and pushed. The slide was slow and delicious, inch by inch, until Eames was buried in him to the hilt. Eames leaned forward, chest pressed to Arthur's back, arms holding onto him like he was a life preserver. Arthur's head hung forward, still-damp hair hanging over eyes screwed tightly shut as Eames started to move. He was slow at first, frustratingly so, but at the same time he was so gentle that Arthur's heart threatened to break. Eames began whispering, trailing soft words of encouragement and open-mouthed kisses along his spine, his shoulder blades, the juxtaposition of neck and shoulder. He engulfed Arthur as much as Arthur engulfed him, and Arthur thought, as his body shuddered before Eames' that he'd never been closer to anyone. Eames moved inside him, faster now but never rough. Arthur choked as the head of Eames' cock brushed again and again against his prostate. He went to move a hand to his own cock, but Eames smacked him away and did it himself, his fist pumping Arthur in time to his thrusts. It was overwhelming, and Arthur momentarily forgot to breathe. Color danced behind his eyelids, shapes and patterns and sparkles, and just when Arthur began to fear he'd pass out, he stifled a scream and then he was coming again. His arms gave out and then suddenly it was Eames holding him up as he rode out his own orgasm, pulsing within him.

"Arthur," he whispered, his nose brushing the slick skin of Arthur's back.

Arthur was too spent to think clearly, to make his words coherent, so he just let out a strained "Mm?"

"I... I'm not sure." Eames chuckled, rolling Arthur on top of him and flopping down bonelessly in a clean spot on the sheets. "I've forgotten what I was going to say."

Arthur stretched out the line of his body half atop Eames and half beside him. "Was it something about needing a cigarette?"

Eames let out a laugh, switched on the lamp and fished along the side of the bed for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he'd dumped from the pockets of his jeans. "Close enough, I'm sure." He tapped the box against his palm and pulled out the first cigarette of the pack. "They're your shit American fags, though." He held the filter between his teeth, lit the end and took a drag and then passed it to Arthur.

"Shit American fags? I resemble that remark," he smirked.

"Ha, ha."

Arthur closed his eyes as he took a drag and the nicotine shot straight to his head. He left the cigarette balanced between fingers resting lightly against his lips until Eames plucked it away a few seconds later.

"No bogarting my own cigarettes now, love."

Arthur blinked at the endearment, staring at the slightly yellowed ceiling tiles. He didn't know why it should feel differently this time, but despite the afterglow and the nicotine high, it bothered him. He rolled over in the crook of Eames' arm until he was facing the other man. Eames felt Arthur's eyes on him and so he reached over to the ashtray, tapping off the end of it and leaving it to smolder. He looked at Arthur with what may have been concern. But he didn't say what Arthur was expecting him to.

"Have you ever heard that song, 'Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen?' You know, the one that's like a commencement address?" Arthur nodded against him, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. Eames smiled at him, a strange sadness clouding his features. "There's a line in it that's always struck me. 'The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.' It... it was 3pm on a Thursday, actually, but..." Eames voice was rough. "Angie'd always told me it would be me to end us. I'd get into some kind of trouble with my work," he made quotes with his fingers, "and I'd get her involved. But it wasn't anything like that; just a car accident. Just some young girl who looked away from the road for a second to change the radio station and swerved a bit." His voice broke.

Arthur sat up, alarmed, wrapping the sheets around his lower half. Eames was shaking as he snatched the cigarette out of the tray, fumbled with it and took an unhealthily long drag.

"Sorry, I just..." Eames closed his eyes for a moment, resting the hand with the cigarette on his knee and letting the smoke escape his lips in a slow stream. "She ah, she had Sam with her. My boy. He was three years old."

Arthur couldn't think of anything to say to that, and for a while there was only the steady drone of the rain on the roof-did it ever stop? Eventually Eames opened his eyes, and they were dry, but his mouth was tight.

"So," Arthur started, as gently as he could. "What we just did... what was it? Was it an apology for earlier, or did you do it to drown away your sorrows in pleasure?" His voice wasn't bitter, but it was flat. Eames turned and gave him a hard look, but it softened as soon as he saw the way Arthur's hands had fisted around the sheets.

"It was neither, Arthur." Arthur was so surprised by the use of his actual name that he blinked. Eames leaned forward to kiss the shocked look off his face, a tactic which proved to be quite successful. He bit at Arthur's lip, then smiled into him. "No, unlike Cobb I've actually dealt with my issues. This... this was because I wanted to."

It shouldn't have made Arthur feel so warm inside, but it did.

Soon the cigarette had gone out, the last wisps of smoke drifting off into nothing. Eames switched off the lamp and lay back under the sheets, Arthur pressed into the crook of his arm and shoulder with a leg thrown over him. Their breathing steadied out, and while their sleep was dreamless, at least it was peaceful. Outside, the rain had stopped.


End file.
